chapter 8
flotsam and jetsam
Our
stay with the Watson's proved to be a most pleasant experience
indeed. Dr. Watson was as kind and good-hearted a man as I had
envisioned from the stories, and his wife Mary was a sweet, dear lady
who proved to be an excellent hostess. She was especially helpful in
giving Jeanette and me tips on how to fit into this century. The
Watson's had an adorable 2-year-old son, Charles, called Charlie,
who took to
Jeanette and me immediately. When the doctor was not
busy with his medical practice, the little family endeavored to make
our stay with them into a holiday. They took us round London and
showed us several points of interest, including the opera, the
theater, and various sight-seeing locations. We would always return
through the gathering fog for a cozy evening by the fire, during
which the usually quiet Jeanette surprised me yet again, by sending
the Watson's into frequent peals of laughter with humorous stories of
our life in the 21st century. Like the long-time student I was, I
took careful notes on everything I observed about Victorian London,
thus learning more than I ever had from books or historical articles.
I knew that the mystery surrounding the false murder of my uncle
could not be in more capable hands than those of Sherlock Holmes, and
for an entire week our life in London was so peaceful that I was able
to almost forget about the mystery entirely. I had but one regret--I
had not seen Mr. Holmes once since arriving here, although I knew
that Watson visited him often.
One bright afternoon, Jeanette and
Mary had gone out to do a little shopping, though I had stayed behind
to finish a book I was reading. The book was now finished, and I was
alone in the house, except for the servants, who were bustling round
in the kitchen. I leaned back in my chair and rested my feet on the
coffee-table, an action I was careful not to perform while in the
company of any of my Victorian acquaintances. My thoughts turned to
the mystery, another word of which I was yet to hear uttered. It
really was rather maddening to be here in Victorian London and not
see Mr. Holmes again, or hear of the mystery he was working on.
Just
then, I heard Dr. Watson enter the front door downstairs, and on a
sudden impulse I raced down to greet him.
"Hello, Dr. Watson!
How were your rounds?" I asked him.
"Quite usual, I'm
afraid, Miss Ingham," he said with a friendly smile, hanging up his
coat and hat. "Routine matters, really."
"Speaking of
routine," I said, twisting my hands together a bit
self-consciously, "I was wondering if you had talked to Mr. Holmes
recently about his latest case?"
"Well, you know Holmes,"
said the doctor. "He loves to drop mysterious hints along the way,
but it is not until the case is over that anyone hears a full
explanation. But perhaps if you spoke to him yourself, you might be
able to wheedle something out of him. The case does greatly concern
you, after all. Why not call upon him this very afternoon?"
"Can
I do that?" I blurted out. "I mean, is that proper?"
"Do
not worry, Miss Ingham," said Watson. "Everyone calls upon Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. Look, why not fetch your hat and coat and I'll
hail you a cab straight away."
It wasn't long before my cab
had arrived in Baker Street, and shivers went down my spine as I
looked again upon 221B. I hadn't really had a chance to get a good
look at the place before, and I wanted to take in every detail. But I
knew it would do me no good to stand in the street and gawk like an
idiot, so I hurried to the door where I was admitted by Mrs. Hudson.
It was with a mixture of disappointment and relief that I heard her
say Holmes had gone out for the moment, for I had been attacked by a
sudden fit of intense shyness.
"But he's sure to be back any
minute now, Miss," Mrs. Hudson informed me. "I'll just show you
up to the sitting room, if you don't mind a short wait."
Once
alone in the sitting room, I had ample opportunity to take a closer
look at the famous residence. I knew it was nosy of me, but I
couldn't resist peering closely at the messy pile of books and
papers and chemical apparatus that lay scattered on Holmes' desk
and bookshelves. I was careful not to touch anything, though, for I
knew Holmes would be able to tell in a moment if someone had messed
with his belongings. But that resolve changed in an instant when I
remembered one particular belonging of Holmes'--the photograph of
Irene Adler from "The Scandal in Bohemia." I was seized with
relentless curiosity about what this reportedly beautiful woman
really looked like. Where would Holmes have put the photograph? I
wondered. Then I noticed a small storage cabinet just above the
mantelpiece. It was a kind of a random guess, but I wondered if the
association in Holmes' mind with the part that fire had played in
the Bohemian scandal might have caused him to store the photograph
there. Carefully I opened the cabinet drawer, and saw in one corner a
small, flat black box. I took out the box and opened the lid, and,
sure enough, there was a photograph that could only have been of
Irene Adler.
She was even more beautiful than I had imagined, with
fair, creamy skin, a full, elegant figure, raven-black hair, a
voluptuous smile, and icy violet eyes that held you in their
fearless, intelligent gaze even in photograph form. I understood now
why Holmes had described her as having "a face that a man might die
for." With a sudden vehemence I closed the box and shoved it back
into the cabinet. At the same instant that I closed the cabinet door
I heard another door open behind me, and someone entered the room
with a quick step.
"Ah, Miss Ingham, how do you like my latest
monogram upon the subject of bread crumbs?"
It was Sherlock
Holmes. I breathed a quick sigh a relief; thank goodness he hadn't
noticed what I was really looking at! I saw the monogram right before
me on the mantelpiece, snatched it up, and turned to Holmes, thumbing
through the manuscript as though I really had been perusing it.
"It's
a lovely monogram, Mr. Holmes," I said, hoping he would not
undertake to quiz me on it. "I had no idea that bread crumbs could
be so…interesting."
"Why, thank you, my dear lady,"
replied the detective. He was clad in the uniform of a sailor, and
had carried a fishy, salty smell into the room that made me suspect
he had been investigating down at the city docks. I was thrilled to
encounter Holmes in what could only have been his "Captain Basil"
disguise, and I was just going to ask him about it when he spoke
first.
"The use of bread crumbs in the deductive process is
quite a recent development, but I believe it will prove to be a very
effective one. There are exactly 974 bakeries in London, each with
their own unique combination of recipes, ingredients, oven
temperatures, etc., and each with their own unique product. Bread
crumbs are a fairly common item in the pockets or on the clothing of
suspects, and the knowledge of which taverns, restaurants, or
households are the routine patrons of which bakeries is very easily
obtained. When one adds in the factor of home-made bread, it is
possible in some cases to trace the suspect to his very doorstep.
You've no idea how good it feels to be back in one's own century,
Miss Ingham. Every man has his limits, and chief among mine is that I
am strictly a man of my time. The technology and achievements of your
age are a fascinating study, but the world in general becomes far too
slippery for my taste. Gone are the days that a careful observer
could identify his man by the scent of his tobacco or the stitch of
his overcoat, and definite information of any kind is so difficult to
catch hold of. Take this monogram, for instance. In my century it is
invaluable; in yours, it is next to worthless. If I were to find
bread-crumbs in the pocket of a 21st century man, I could determine
only which major company had manufactured them, and thus would be
scarcely better off than I was before. Miss Ingham, I see by your
fingertips that you share my taste for music."
I had no idea
what that last sentence had to do with the rest of Holmes' speech,
but I confirmed his belief that I, too, played the
violin.
"Excellent!" he cried, snatching his violin case out
of a cluttered corner. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to play for
me this new piece, here?" He plopped a piece of sheet music onto
the desk before me.
My face flushed with embarrassment. "Mr.
Holmes, I fear you will find my musical abilities far inferior to
your own."
"Nonsense, my dear lady. I shall count it an honor
to hear you." I smiled at the undeserved compliment, and, after
quickly rosining the bow and tuning the strings, I commenced playing
the melody.
I was astonished by the intense beauty and melancholy
expressed in the simple tune. Although I was merely sight-reading, my
mind was filled with images of falling autumn leaves, of glowing
street-lamps on a rainy day, of the wind moaning piteously across an
empty moor. By the end of the piece, I felt I was on the verge of
tears. I handed Holmes back his violin, saying, "What a beautiful
song, Mr. Holmes. I have never heard it played before. Is it
Beethoven, perhaps?"
"You will find the composer's name in
the customary right-hand corner," Holmes replied
matter-of-factly.
Duh, I thought, and looked back at the sheet
music. I was astonished to see that the name there was S. Holmes!
"You are the composer, Mr. Holmes?" I exclaimed.
"Tut-tut,
Miss Ingham," he replied airily. "It was merely the result of an
excessive attack of ennui last autumn. The bread-crumb monogram is a
work of which I am far prouder." Holmes went on about bread crumbs
and their usefulness, putting in a good deal also about various types
of mustard stains, for another quarter of an hour. Suddenly, the
clock chimed five, and he sprang out of his chair, ending our
conversation with a brief "Thank you so much for calling, Miss
Ingham." Before I could say another word, he had ushered me quickly
down the stairs, hailed a cab for me, directed the driver to Watson's
residence, and was heading down the street in the opposite direction,
his hands jammed into his pockets, and using a lazy, slightly
wobbling step that apparently marked the sea-faring Captain Basil.
It
was not until I was half-way back to the Watson's that I realized I
had not learned one bit of information about the mystery.
